The Season
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: It's... not the best time of year to be alone. Pre-JTHM Edgar.


"It's... not the best time of year to be alone."

Some third option universe, which probably lead more or less straight into the events of JTHM.

Author's note: I wrote this a year ago, and ran out of time to post it. So, the time has finally rolled back around for holiday adjacent posting! For anyone still interested in "A Little More Comedy" take this as my promise that it isn't dead, I've just been ungodly busy and time has really gotten away from me in a big way. It'll be back soon.

* * *

Edgar's phone rang.

He didn't have a landline. Instead, a little silver cell sat buzzing between baskets of bagels and pots of soup. The psychologist set down the ladle that he'd been inspecting—left it somewhere beside the cling-wrap—and reached for the phone while simultaneously knocking the microwave shut with a spare elbow.

He tried to keep busy this time of year.

"Hello?" he said, wishing for not the first time that he had caller ID. He'd been told that it wasn't so hard to work. "Edgar Vargas speaking."

A timer dinged somewhere behind him.

"Hey dude," a familiar voice crackled, "Merry fuckin' Chrismas, faggot."

Ah. His favorite student.

"Oh yes," Edgar replied, relaxing, "that's certainly in the spirit of the holiday. Derogatory sexual slurs. Please don't try that in the classroom. So, what, are you feeling particularly hypocritical today of all days?"

The amused man turned back to his kitchenette, observing the three ringed circus that was his stove. The poor thing looked like it needed euthanasia desperately. Still, it was kicking out enough food for an army this year, just like the last five years before. You have to respect that kind of tenacity.

"Mmph—" a rush of air buzzed through the speakers. "Carmella just left for her folk's house. Dad wanted to make me go too, but she wasn't havin' any a that."

"Why not?" Edgar asked, sliding on an oven mitt. The conversation could last a while but those muffins were not going to last another ten minutes.

"Bitch thinks I'm not good enough for the family. Talk about your fuckin' hypocrites. She comes in here at five in the goddamn mornin' like the queena goddamn Sheba, wakes me up an' spends an hour—spends an hour talkin' smack about me. Tell me who's the petty child now? Two face bitch."

Edgar sighed, wishing there wasn't a three day gap between here and there. "She woke you up this morning?"

"Yeah, merry fuckin' Christmas," the teen sneered, bitter as the orange zest Edgar had accidentally gotten a mouthful of earlier that morning. "I can't even have the fuckin' holiday to myself. I hate coming home. I hate it, Edgar."

"Your stepmother certainly hasn't been very welcoming."

Another tinny sigh. "Wish I could've stayed with you."

Edgar looked around his apartment, eyes passing over the mountains of food that he'd never eat, the empty chairs at the table, the empty space below his imitation tree. Lights on the window.

_I wish you could have too_, he didn't say.

"How's your father been?" he asked instead.

"Useless as usual. Made us go to church last night, like some pathetic imitation of a normal Scottish-American family. Left the room when Carmella started ragging on me."

While Jimmy's hatred for his step mother had all the white-hot intensity of violent disliking—sometimes Edgar worried for her safety—his feelings for his father had all the cold disdain of spoilt love. They'd been happy, once, it seemed. Years ago.

"I'm sorry," Edgar said, sliding into the empty seat at his table. The cell phone was cold under his stove-warmed fingers.

"Yeah, well…" the voiced faded for a moment. "One day I'm gonna fuck her up."

"Oh, Jimmy, don't talk like that. It won't fix anything."

The younger man laughed over the speaker, but there was nothing amused in the sound. "You don't even know what she did, Edgar. You don't even _know_."

That same old suspicion surfaced. "I'd know if you'd _tell_ me, Jimmy. You can't expect me to read your mind."

There was a moment of silence. "Nevermind," the kid murmured, "It's… just normal teenage stuff."

"There's nothing normal _about_ you. Don't act like I'm stupid."

More silence. Edgar's thought drifted back to the soup kitchen at his church, to the gaunt man who showed up every year in ragged striped shirts; to empty places at the dinner table and filled plots in the cemetery—most of all, he thought about Jimmy alone in his room, staring out at the snow fields in Washington.

"Sorry," Jimmy muttered, at last. "Maybe some other time, okay?"

The kid sounded so earnest, like the miles between them had stripped away his guarded, untouchable attitude.

"Okay," the older man sighed. "It's up to you. But I'm always here, you know?"

Edgar fancied there was a sort of break in the misery for a split second, a softness that fell over the world for just a moment like a blanket of snow—and in that moment there was something just out of reach, something with edges that seemed to be made for matching.

"Talk to you later," Jimmy said, and the line went dead.

-X-

Edgar was standing beside a long table, speaking with a woman from his congregation. They had an impressive spread this year, not without some credit to Mr. Vargas himself—but then, what else can you do with your holiday when you don't have friends or family? Between him and God, he wasn't sure exactly how much the charity counted for when he wasn't capable of doing anything else.

Still, he planned to make something good out of the holiday, one way or another.

A familiar face appeared in the crowd, messy blue-black hair and ragged stripped sleeves. Edgar put on a smile, this one less work than the ones before. The stranger showed up every year, standing alone at the back as if he was afraid to draw attention to himself. Afraid to cause ripples. And just like every year, Edgar grabbed a bowl of soup and excused himself from the serving table, tucking a couple slices of bread onto the napkin.

He set it down in front of the stranger. He pushed it forward.

The stranger was skinny as a holocaust victim, and just like every year Edgar wondered what exactly had happened to him, what tragedy had left him too guarded to even approach the serving table. But he only smiled as the stranger accepted the offering cautiously, regarding it with positively Roman suspicion.

"Who are you?" the stranger demanded, just like every year.

And just like every year, the teacher replied "Edgar. Edgar _Vargas._"

And there was something in that exchange that felt so inexplicably _right_ that it settled Edgar's discontented mind, for a moment.

Afterwards, he slipped out the back door and into the church yard, down the walkway and off towards the Labyrinth. That was his favorite thing about this church. A labyrinth is a pathway into the distant depths of the human mind, a road to God. Red bows filled the gaps in the banister, Christmas music floated down from the main building. Chorus practice. This, too, was traditional. Edgar might not have friends or family, but he had God, didn't he?

The table might be empty in his apartment, the cemetery might be full—the people around him might be dull and witless and he might be living like a ghost in the wind, but he still had God. And that had to be enough.

_Ode to Joy_ buzzed from his left pocket. He extracted the cell phone from the denim, flipped it open.

"…Hello?"

Silence. A vague, buzzing silence filled with the illusory promise of _something_. It stretched on until Edgar was about to close the phone, consign it to a wrong number, and then a familiar voice broke the quiet.

"Thanks man," it said, softer than he'd ever heard it before. "I miss you. Merry Christmas, Edgar."

And then Jimmy hung up.

The older man looked down at the rectangle of circuits and speakers, and this weird feeling of contentment seeped through his chest like liquor on a cold day. For the first time since the holiday started, he really grinned because he meant it.

It was Christmas day and he was alone, a sole person caught in a tide of hive-mind humanity, but there was someone out there thinking of him. Someone out there was wishing that they were together. If Jimmy missed him…

Maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.


End file.
